


One-Shots and Meanwhiles

by RiverTam



Series: We Hold the Key [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Leverage, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Autocross, Brock Rumlow Needs a Hug, Brock Rumlow feels, Bucky Barnes is a Godawful Juror, Character Parent Death, Driver Education, Gen, HYDRA Husbands, Ice Skating, Jury Duty, M/M, Miata - Freeform, Motorcycles, Original Character Death(s), POV Eliot Spencer, Performance Driving, Protective Eliot Spencer, September 11 Attacks, The Answer is Always Miata, The Winter Soldier Needs a Hug, zoom zoom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-02-09 16:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12892200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverTam/pseuds/RiverTam
Summary: One-shots and Meanwhiles that belong in the We Hold the Key universe - companion fics to Prizrak and following works.If you haven't read Prizrak, this won't make a whole lot of sense, just FYI.





	1. A Funny Thing Happened at the Brewpub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot's not stupid - he knows something's up with the quiet ex-solider in his brewpub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Chapters 15 and 16 of Prizrak.

Eliot frowned thoughtfully as he watched the young Australian soldier walk out of the pub.  Something about him - something wasn’t quite right.  He wasn’t sure what it was, but decades in the business of killing without being killed had taught him to trust his instincts without question.

After slotting the comm unit back into his ear, Eliot made his way back into the kitchen.  “Hardison?”

No answer.

“Hardison, you better not be-”

Something scuffled and snorted.   _“Wha- I- h- hey, Eliot, what’s-”_

“I need you to get me everything you can on the guy that was sitting at Table Six.”  After a moment, Eliot sighed.  “And before you start, this is important.”

 _“...how important?”_  Keys clicked in the background as Hardison pulled up the security footage.

“Dunno yet.”  Eliot nodded in satisfaction as he passed by each chef’s station and confirmed they were spotless.  “But we’ve got some sort of retired black ops soldier using an assumed identity in Portland, and I want to know who he is and why he’s here.”

_“Some sort of- seriously?  That’s all you have for me?  He doesn’t have a very distinctive tie pin or something?”_

With a long-suffering sigh, Eliot rifled through the herbs and made a mental note of what he’d need to pick up in the morning.  “If I can’t tell what he is, he’s good enough for us to keep an eye on.”

 _“Point taken,”_ Hardison said slowly.   _“Okay, so.  Table Six, light brown hair, glasses, looks like he bench presses Scottish castles for fun?”_

“Focus.”

_“Well… let’s see.  He paid in cash, but…”_

“Yes, we know, we’re lucky to have you.”  He checked the edges on Maria’s knives, then moved on to the next station.  “Get on with it.”

_“Okay, here’s what I got.  One Aaron Fletcher, beer aficionado and foodie, currently in the States to look at schools for an architecture master’s program, according to his Instagram.  Spent some time in the SASR, apparently, then fell off the map for a few years.  His record is… locked down pretty damn tight, if I’m honest.  Grew up just outside Sydney, son of a dentist and lounge singer.  Flew over last week, renting a house on Barnes Road.”_

Eliot scowled at the knife he was sharpening.  “Something’s missing.  Keep looking, I’ll lock up downstairs and head home.”

***

It took until he was seeing his dad off at the door to the pub for for Hardison to come back with anything else.

_“Hey, you know how you told me to keep looking for information on your mystery soldier?”_

“Yeah, I did, ‘cause I’m the one that said it.”

Hardison ignored the jab and kept talking.  _“I_ _noticed something weird on one of the sensors I’ve got up here every time we’ve had him in the pub.  Turns out he’s packing something that gives off some pretty serious RF interference.”_

“English, Hardison.”

_“He’s messing with my radio waves the same way the Dreamnasium did.”_

Understanding hit Eliot like a sack of bricks; he stopped dead for a few seconds, swore, then headed for the stairs in the back.  When he passed the table Tabbi and the twins were at, he leaned down to give her a quick kiss before disappearing through the employee door.  “Remember those heat cameras you put up a few years back?”

 _“On it, my man."_ A few seconds passed before Hardison sucked in a sharp breath and swore quietly.   _“Is his entire left arm supposed to be thermally dead?  Eliot, what’s going on?  Who is this guy?”_

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the banister halfway up the second flight of stairs.   _Can’t be.  It fucking can’t be._  “I don’t know yet, but I got a hunch, and I’m pretty sure you ain’t gonna like it.”

 _“Ain’t gonna like what?”_ Parker cut in, her voice muddled with sleep.   _“What the hell’s the big deal?  You had to wake me up because some ex-soldier’s in WITSEC?”_

Ex-soldier indeed.

Once at their computer station, Eliot watched footage from one of the slow-motion cameras.  “What am I looking for?”

“Wait for it…”  Hardison leaned in, finger hovering over the space bar, until something flickered on the screen.  “There.”  He’d been waiting for the oscillating signal he’d noticed to finally line up with a video frame.

The three of them stared at the shining silver arm in disbelief.

“I…”  The words trailed off as Eliot swallowed thickly, then rubbed a thumb over the thick, knotted scar to the right of his sternum.

“You wanna tell me why the Winter fucking Soldier is in our pub?” Hardison asked, his voice low.

“He’s not-”

“Um.”  Parker pointed to the silver arm in the freeze-frame.  “He kind of is.”

“-not dangerous.”

“Kind of _is.”_

Blinking a few times, Eliot stepped back and shook his head.  “He’s- I’ve met him before.  He saved my life.”  The memory, fuzzy and swimming in delirium, tricked back into his mind.  “I was bleeding out in the sand in Croatia and he saved my life.”  He sniffed suddenly and turned, pulling out his phone.  “I gotta make a call.”

It rang twice before connecting.

_“This is Vance.”_

“You know how I nearly died in Croatia and I kept babblin’ about how a ghost saved my life?”

 _“...yeah?”_  It was clear from Vance’s tone that he didn’t know where Eliot was going with it.

“Ghost’s back, and he’s in my town.  Oh, and he’s also the Winter Soldier.  I dunno how I didn’t connect the dots until now.”

_“...Eliot, have you been drinking again?”_

“Michael, this is serious.”  Eliot rubbed at his eyes and paced the length of Nate’s old office.  “He’s probably hiding out after that FUBAR on New Year’s Eve.”

Vance sighed and the phone line crackled in response. _“What do you want me to do about this?  I’ve got enough brass on my shoulders that my hands are tied, here.”_

“If he’s goin’ after his captors…”

_“You want me to have a team ready?”_

Reluctantly, Eliot’s shoulders slumped forward as he leaned against the wall.  “Yeah.”

_“To stop him or to help him?”_

“I… dunno yet, actually.”  He peered up at the ceiling.  “Bit o’ both, maybe?”

_“Shelley?”_

Eliot grinned despite himself.  “Shelley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that don't know/don't remember, the Dreamnasium is what they use to screw with their mark's mind in The White Rabbit Job (5x12). It's basically a massive building-wide set of holographic projectors.


	2. Fair and Impartial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James gets jury duty.
> 
> James is an insufferable asshat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place some unspecified time around Chapters 9 to 11 of Prizrak. I just haven't really decided where this goes, haha.
> 
> Trigger warning: references to sexual abuse and domestic violence.

James groaned and tried to rub away the headache forming between his eyes as the metal detector filled the tiled room with its shrill _bweebweebwee._  His scalp itched as what felt like every eye in the state turned to stare at him.

Mumbles and mutters - _invasive thoughts, these aren’t real_ \- buzzed around his head like desert flies.  _Murderer.  Monster.  We know what you are._

A brightly colored embroidered patch caught his attention long enough for the angry brain gremlins to take a breath.  “Sir, I’ll need to-”

“It’s my arm,” he gritted out.

The security guard raised an eyebrow and held out a small plastic tray.  “Please put any watches or bracelets in here.”

“It’s my _arm._  It doesn’t _come off.”_  Before the man could ask for clarification, James roughly tugged his gloves off and shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, then raised his hand and waggled his silver fingers.  “StarkTech, hello.”

Tension wrapped around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter, much like Steve had once described his asthma attacks..  He held his arm out to the side while they wanded him down, then collected his things and tried unsuccessfully to decipher the building directory.

“Third floor,” a woman told him tiredly.  “And there’s no elevator, so I hope today’s leg day for you.”

Tugging the strap of his bag further up on his shoulder, James wordlessly turned and followed her up the stairs.

After a mind-numbing wait in a windowless, over-chilled room, the harried attendant read James’s number.

He sank gratefully into the first padded seat he’d seen that day - also the first one large enough to be comfortable - and subtly flicked his eyes around the room.

No one looked like they wanted to be there.

Well, maybe the girl with the sketchbook, who looked so disturbingly like a female pre-War Steve that James had to look away before he got caught staring.

When asked later, James freely admitted he zoned out and possibly lost a little time until his juror number drifted into his consciousness and he automatically rose to his feet, crossed the room, and plopped down in the empty juror’s seat.

The first few questions they threw at him were fairly routine, easy enough to answer truthfully without word-vomiting all over the court proceedings.

He should have known his luck was slated to run out.

“Tell me about your job or occupation,” the defense lawyer asked him, and his store-bought suit stretched over his rounded shoulders as he crossed his arms.  The coffee on his desk had long since gone cold, but James had watched him with baffled fascination as he kept drinking down the putridly sweet espresso concoction well after the point of no tasteful return.

 _Here we go._  James swallowed, scratched the back of his neck, then clasped his hands in his lap.  “I’m on the auxiliary Avengers team.”

The defense lawyer blinked a few times, nudged his glasses further up his nose, and huffed out a confused laugh.  “Beg pardon?”

“Well, they can’t damn well put an ex-HYDRA black ops soldier on the main lineup, can they?”

A few more blinks, then an awkward smile.  “Do you feel that this will affect your ability to-”

“I’ll be straight with you, pal.”  James leaned forward on the short wall - _not a cell, not a tank, just a fragile wooden barrier, nothing to fear_ \- in front of him and crossed his arms.  “I fight bad guys for a living.  And not just any bad guys, I fight bad guys that make the plaintiff look like a toddler with a teddy bear.”  He laughed and dragged a hand over his face.  “Come to think of it, we’ll come at the question from another angle and get the same answer.”

The defendant, a young, feisty Filipino woman with a surprisingly attractive scowl, shot a baffled glance at the plaintiff.

“I’m a rape survivor.  There, we got that in the open.”  One of the older dames to his left gasped quietly.  “Systematically tied down and- you know what?  You want the details, there’s footage of me, my handler, an’ my doctors tellin’ the whole damn world about it on basically every major news channel starting last month.”

Stunned silence greeted him and the defense lawyer tilted his head forward to peer at James over his glasses.

“You got no idea who I am, do you?”

“Enlighten me,” the judge drawled, head propped up on his chin.  He had the same half-bored, half-fascinated expression Mickey got when vegetating in front of mind-numbing plotless sitcoms.

“Master Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, United States Army, 107th Tactical Team.  Howling Commando, HYDRA prisoner of war, Winter Soldier - retired, mostly.  Nice ta meetcha.”

When the murmurs and quiet questions died down, James decided to preempt the next voir dire question.

“For the record, I know the plaintiff.  He doesn’t know me, though, because the last time I saw him he was _this big-”_  He mimed with his hands to indicate a small toddler.  “-and his daddy thought it’d be fun to have little Bobby at Bring Your Kid to Work day, and showed him the big bad Winter Soldier pissing itself while they electrocuted its brain.  Yeah, _it._  I was an ‘it’ for seven decades, two of them thanks to _that_ prick’s father.”

He subtly slid his gloves off and pointed at Bobby Pierce with a metal finger.  “His father is former Secretary of State Alexander Pierce, and I think the still-smoking wreckage in the Potomac is about as eloquent a summation of his legacy as you need.”  Indignant sputters shuddered their way out of the beefy blond jock and the judge silenced him with a sidelong look.

James turned to the tired man in the black robes with a wooden gavel dangling from overworked fingers, and sighed quietly.  “Your Honor, the charges filed against the defendant are bogus.  We all know they are.  The worst thing she’s guilty of is a bad decision made with anger clouding her judgement.  Doesn’t excuse the fact that she hit him with her car, because, _ow,_ even _I_ can’t walk that off without a wince.  But you’re asking me to be a fair and impartial juror?  Which, by the way, the last time I served on a jury was in the 1930s, so take what you will from that.

“But I can’t.  Because that man’s father fucked me more than he did his own wife, and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree at all.  Look at the defendant’s wrists, Your Honor.  The way she curves her shoulders inward and tries to make herself smaller.  As much skin covered as possible, makeup plastered all over the rest to hide the bruises.  How her nails and knuckles are cracked and broken - look at the pin on her blouse.  It’s from Kravis Children’s Hospital, and they only give those out to the heroes who’ve done a tour in the trauma center.  The only way she’d mess up her hands like that is if she’d been trying to fight someone or she has a thing for hardcore gardening, and I’d bet my Army pension that the gunk under her nails ain’t dirt.

“Her ankles are swollen, and it isn’t from being on her feet all day.  Any doctor worth his or her salt will tell you the contusions hiding under her stockings are from restraints.  It’s probably a safe bet that her left ankle got sprained and still hasn’t healed up completely, based on how she won’t put weight on it even when she’s sitting down.  I can smell the elastic in the ACE bandage she’s got around her knee under her suit.  Only reason she’s in as good o’ shape as she is?  Like I said, she’s a nurse.

“Plaintiff’s strong enough he wouldn’t have any trouble holding her down.  Hell, he could hold _me_ down if he put his mind to it - finger on the forehead, wrestling holds, yeah?  He’s got calluses on his hands that he probably says are from weightlifting, but they ain’t in the right spots.”  He held up his own hand and pointed illustratively to it.  “I’ll let his lawyer handle that one, because I can’t fuckin’ _wait_ to see how he talks his way out of it.

“Body language - he’s running on adrenaline, has been for long enough that he’s just this side of jittery.  Thinks he’ll get away with it - _again._ This ain’t his first offense, only the first he’s ended up in court for, and he managed to countersue before he ended up needing to defend himself.  Papa Pierce always hushed it up before, but…”  Turning to the increasingly pale plaintiff, James gave him a predatory grin.  “HYDRA isn’t here anymore to bankroll your sadism fetish, are they, sonny boy?”

“Mister Barnes…”

“I’ll take the liberty of excusing myself, Your Honor.  I know I wouldn’t want me on a jury.  I’ve got more years of training in oculesics, kinesics, and proxemics than most of your so-called experts have been _alive.”_

“By all means.  Get the hell outta my hair, Brooklyn.”

As he swirled his coat onto his arms and popped it up over his shoulders, James couldn’t resist one last jab.  “Hit me with Contempt of Court if you have to, it’s all just paperwork in the end.  Oh, and…”  He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the plaintiff.  “Bobby Pierce is sleeping with his lawyer.  Sexual favors in exchange for legal work, because god knows he can’t afford a man with those credentials, not anymore.”

When the defendant choked quietly, James gave her a reassuring smile edged with sad empathy.  “It ain’t you, doll, it’s _all_ him.  If there’s a monster in the room, myself aside, it’s the man that thought he could hit you and hurt you and walk away from it all with his head held high while you paid the price for his sins.”

And with a respectful nod to the retired special forces bailiff and a mocking salute for the rest of the courtroom, James strode down the center aisle and pushed the giant wooden doors open.

“...well, now,” he heard as he started down the hallway.  “I think it’s time we revisit the charges, don’t you, Mr. Pierce?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record, don't ever do what James did if you actually get jury duty. It's pretty high up there on the list of I'm An Asshole And I Make Bad Decisions.
> 
> Oculesics: the study of eye-related nonverbal communication.  
> Proxemics: the study of how people use and fill the space they occupy  
> Kinesics: the study of body motion language such as facial expressions and gestures


	3. The Day the World Stopped Turning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There will come a moment when you have to commit to this or bail. Every field agent has a defining moment... when you have to make the hard call to either dedicate yourself to this or to curl up in a ball and run."
> 
> This is Michaela Tracey Draymond's defining moment.
> 
> This is the day that the world stopped turning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Big, big warnings for this one:**  
>  \- Major character's parent death, semi-offscreen  
> \- 9/11 (if you don't know what this is, well... uh... *head scratch*)
> 
>  **Standard trigger warnings:**  
>  \- Mentions of transgender status

The rink was nearly empty as Mickey shouldered her locker door shut and spun the lock’s dial around out of reflex.  She yawned, scrubbed at her eyes, and downed the last of her coffee before tossing the empty paper cup into a trash can on her way towards the ice.

Jack waved at her as she walked by; he usually had a book in his hand during her morning practice, and today he had his nose buried in _Artemis Fowl._  He set his free hand back down on Brock’s shoulder and the older man grumbled quietly into his arms as he dozed slumped over on the green plastic-coated picnic table.  Smirking, Mickey stepped onto the ice and settled into the soothing back-and-forth strokes of her warmup laps.

She took advantage of the open ice to sweep through huge loops and circles, knowing that the other two skaters out with her wouldn’t get in her way.  It didn’t take long to lose herself in a relaxed, freeform version of the routine she was prepping for the upcoming exhibition.

Mickey didn’t even mind that much that she was still competing in men’s singles.  If anything, it wouldn’t be fair to the female competitors since she could jump both higher and faster, consistently landing triples while her teammates generally stuck to doubles.

All she wanted to do was skate.  She didn’t care about the details, as long as she didn’t have to do pairs.  Not that she had any problems with any of the girls, just… that’s where Mickey drew the line, and her coach had long since given up fighting her on it.

“Hey, girl,” Alexis called as she swept by in a set of back crossovers.  Finishing out her set, the other girl stroked over and slid to a stop next to where Mickey had one leg up on the wall to stretch it.  “Your lutzes look good today.”

“Thanks.  The ice feels better than it did last week.  Did they get the zamboni fixed?”

“Either that or replaced.  I haven’t seen it yet so I don’t know.”  Alexis leaned back with her elbows braced against the rink wall and jerked her head over toward the tables.  “Who’s the cute guy sitting next to Jack?”

Mickey glanced over her shoulder as she switched legs.  “Oh, that’s Brock.  He’s Jack’s boyfriend.”  Brock was now awake - barely - and staring blearily into the cup of coffee he had both hands wrapped around.

“Why are all the cute guys gawdamn _gay.”_  Alexis scowled up at the ceiling.

“Serves you right for ogling men that’re way too old for you, Lex.”

“Shut up or I’mma make you wear that stupid-ass pink tutu they’re putting the rest of us in this year.”

“Yeah, that’s totally the only reason I’m still in men’s,” Mickey shot back with a shameless smirk.  “Admit it, you just can’t handle the competition.”  The skating team was a family, and a family that had accepted Mickey’s transition without much fuss at all.  The other girls had adopted her as one of their own, teaching her everything she’d never learned about makeup, hair, clothes… They were the sisters she’d never had.

Laughing, Alexis threw a harmless punch at Mickey’s shoulder.  She sighed and her smile faded, and she put an arm around Mickey’s waist.  “Latonya’s in a bit of a mood today, just a heads up.  She’s got a pretty short fuse so be patient with her if she says something stupid or dumb.”

“I’ve got a pretty thick skin by now, I doubt it’ll-”

Panicked voices interrupted Mickey, and the two girls quickly skated to the other side of the rink.  Trotting over the rubber floor toward the commotion, they followed everyone to the giant TV hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the gear shop.

_“-eyewitness on the telephone who tells us that-”_

“Jack?  What’s going-”

_“-an airplane crash into the World Trade Center-”_

He shushed Mickey without looking away from the TV.  His eyes were wide with alarm and his knuckles went white from the force of his grip on Brock’s shoulders.  At first it looked like he was trying to hold the smaller man back from something, but Mickey realized after a moment that Jack’s hands were the only thing keeping Brock on his feet at all.

Mickey’s heart skipped a beat when she wriggled her way around Brock and finally got a look at the news.

_“-roaring engines comin’.  We looked up and there was a plane-”_

The Twin Towers were burning.

Brock let out a choked gasp, staring numbly at the screen.  His arms hung limp at his side and his shoulders shook as he struggled to breathe.  He didn’t even blink when his work pager chirped.

_“-had to be a 737-”_

Jack’s went off a moment later, and with visible effort he unclipped it from his belt and quickly scanned the message.  He closed his eyes, took a quick breath, and stuffed his pager into his pocket.  “Brock.  Hey.”

The older man didn’t respond.

“Hey, c’mon, man, we gotta go to work.  They’re mobilizing-”

“I- I can’t,” Brock whispered.  “I can’t remember…”

“Babe?”

Burying his hands in his black hair, Brock stared numbly at the floor.  “I don’t remember which tower he worked in.”

Understanding dawned sickeningly on Jack and he squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, then pulled out his cell phone and held it out.  “Call him.”

_“-we looked up, it was making a beeline for the-”_

“I don’t-”

“They’re mobilizing our unit, and I have to report whether or not you’re going to be there,” Jack said in an undertone that only Brock and Mickey could hear.  “I’ll cover for you, but you have to promise me you’ll _call him.”_

“They’re sending you to New York?  Are they nuts?” Mickey hissed.  “Look at what just happened!”

“I’m sorry, Mickey Mouse.  I gotta go.”  Jack was already backing away.  “Make sure he’s okay, you hear me?  Catch a ride to school with Lex if you can.”

She huffed and shook her head in confused frustration, then turned to Brock.  Jack’s phone hung limply from his hand, and Brock seemed unaware that he was even holding it.

“Brock?”

“They just-”  He flicked his eyes up to the TV again, then pressed his thumb and forefinger into them.  “Oh, God.”

_“-mind-boggling to think about how many people are up there-”_

“You need to call someone, Jack said.  C’mon.”  Mickey wrapped her fingers around his wrist and lifted up the hand with the phone.  “Looks like you got signal.  What’s the number?”

That seemed to shake Brock back into alertness and he looked around at the panicked, frightened people around them.  He frowned for a second at the phone in his hand, then slowly keyed in a phone number.  “He’s got long distance, right?” he mumbled.

“It costs extra, but yeah.  He won’t care.”

Brock’s thumb hovered over the large button just below the screen and he chewed his lip anxiously for a second before reluctantly pressing the button down.

The phone rang once before Brock managed to raise it to his ear.  After the third ring, a fuzzy but unmistakable voice answered.

_“Rumlow speaking.  This ain’t a good time right now, pal, aren’t you watchin’ the-”_

“Dad?” Brock asked tightly, his voice quiet and higher pitched than usual.

There was a long silence from the man on the other end of the call, then, _“Brock?  Holy fuck, Brock, is that you?”_

“Y- yeah, Dad.  It’s me.  Thank God you’re okay.”  Brock’s voice cracked.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the TV and the grainy footage of smoke pouring out of the North Tower

_“I’m so far from fuckin’ okay right now, boy.  But- shit, son.  Shit, it’s good to hear your voice.  Oh, Lord Almighty.  It’s horrible out here.”_

“Dad, can you get-”

_“The elevators are stuck an’ the stairs are packed worse than the subway at rush hour.  I’m tryin’ but-”_

“There’s no evacuation plan?”

His dad barked out a hollow laugh.   _“Can’t never plan for this, slugger.”_  A deep breath crackled through the phone and Brock dragged his free hand over his face.   _“Christ, it’s been so many years, son.  I just gotta say this, okay?  Hear me out.”_

“Sure, Dad.”  Fumbling blindly for Mickey, Brock pulled her into a one-armed hug, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead above her ear.  With her skates on, they were the same height; Mickey wrapped one arm around Brock’s shoulders and used the other to pull one of the younger boys to her side.  Patrick’s mom had left to run errands during his morning practice, and now he clung to Mickey desperately with wide, panicked eyes.

_“I know we didn’t part on the best’a terms.  I’m sorry, son.  It’s my fault.  Should’a just loved the son I had an’ not tried to change you.”_

“Dad,” Brock choked out.  “Please don’t talk like that, you’re makin’ me afraid I’m gonna lose you again.”

 _“I’m sorry.”_  The man sounded oddly at peace.   _“I’m sorry, and I hope you can f’give me one day.  You got y’self a good boy yet?”_

Sniffing, Brock took the phone away from his ear for a moment to wipe his nose.  “Yeah, dad.  Name’s Jack.  He’s nice, you’d like ‘im.  Got a younger sister.  We got a condo for the three of us in Detroit.”

_“Good, good.  You take care’a them, you hear me?”_

“I- I will, Dad.  Is everything okay?”

Mickey stiffened when she noticed the tiny white and gray speck moving across the screen.  “Is that a news chopper?  It’s moving too fast.”

_“Everything’s just fine, son.  Just one more thing.  Never told you this as much as I should’ve, okay?  I love y-”_

Three beeps interrupted him.

Less than a second later, fire-laced smoke billowed out of the South Tower.  The news reporter’s calm voice only added to the surreal nightmare unfolding on the TV.

_“-we’ve just had another explosion, and that is considerably lower-”_

Mickey barely had time to let go of Patrick before Brock’s knees gave out.  Catching him, she pulled Brock tight against her and narrowly missed crushing the dropped cell phone under one of her skates.

Turning away from the TV, Mickey curled one hand around the back of Brock’s head and held her brother’s boyfriend as he shook silently.

Alexis slowly crouched, scooped up the discarded phone, and clumsily tucked it into the back pocket of Brock’s jeans.  She put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, then took Patrick’s hand and led him over to one of the tables.

Later that day, Mickey slung her backpack onto her shoulders and headed for the door as the last bell of the school day rang.  She felt drained, stretched thin, and _tired_ in the same way she’d felt during the weeks of fighting to get the school to let her attend as a girl.  Half of the faculty was still in shock; they’d tried to keep things as normal as possible for the students, but the principal had seen the hopeless cause for what it was and called an emergency assembly in the large gym right after lunch.  The seniors and some of the juniors had stepped up to help calm and comfort their scared classmates - and even some of the adults.

Pausing at the drinking fountain, she leaned over and did her best not to hiss as the freezing cold water hit her teeth.  She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, then headed back down the hall.

The Career Center wasn’t much to look at, just another door in the main hallway of the school with rows of little plastic brochure holders nailed to the wall next to it.  She rarely gave it a second look, but this time, something caught her eye.

Tugging one of the glossy, thick trifolds free, Mickey skimmed it as she bumped into the crash bar on the main doors of the school.  She looked up briefly so she didn’t trip going down the steps, then turned the brochure over and read the last page of it as she headed toward the street.

On any other day, Mickey would have grinned shamelessly at the jealous looks her classmates threw her way.  Jack was waiting for her at the curb as usual with his bike leaned over on its kickstand, his butt planted sideways on the seat, and his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles.

Rather than the usual smile and wave, though, Jack simply stared sightlessly at the ground in front of him.  His arms were crossed uncomfortably over his chest and deep lines of exhaustion cut into his cheeks under his eyes.  He looked up when Mickey’s feet scuffed on the concrete a few feet away, and a ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

“How is he?” Mickey asked, and Jack shook his head.

“Haven’t been home yet.  Came straight here from work.  MacAlister from next door called and said he’s with Brock right now, making sure he doesn't fall off the wagon.”

“What’d they have you do?”

“Whole lotta hurry up an’ wait.  Nearly lost one of our best men today - he was on assignment in the North Tower, but he’s alive an’ ‘elping coordinate search an’ rescue from the inside.”  The telltale lilt inherited from their parents made Jack’s words jump slightly, betraying his fatigue, and Mickey immediately stepped forward and hugged him.  “There isn’t a helluva lot we can do as a combat unit, but they might deploy us for search an’ rescue if FDNY needs boots on the ground.”

After squeezing Mickey tightly, Jack unclipped her helmet from the back of the seat and held it out to her.  He noticed the folded paper in her hand and raised an eyebrow.  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Mickey sucked in her lips and chewed on them for a few seconds before slowly holding the brochure out to him.  “I, uh…”  She fiddled with the straps on her helmet.  “I figured out what I want to do after I graduate.”

The gold and blue emblem of the United States Navy filled nearly half of the front panel of the brochure.  Jack slid his thumb across it, then looked up at Mickey.  “You sure?”

“If not me, then who?”  She raised her chin defiantly.  “I’ll serve as a man if I have to, but I want to do my part.”

The brochure fluttered to the ground as Jack stepped forward and pulled his sister into a tight, desperate hug.  “God, I love you, peanut.  We’ll make it happen.  I promise.”  He stepped back and tried to discreetly wipe the moisture from his eyes, then gave Mickey a watery smile.  “C’mon, sis.  Brock needs us.  Let’s go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Jack and Brock:
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	4. Zoom Zoom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answer is always, apparently, Miata.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the flashback in Prizrak Chapter 8, and between Chapter 1 and 2.
> 
> May or may not be fanservice for my gearhead readers ;)
> 
> Trigger warning (sort of) for low-siding a motorcycle. If you don't know what that is, you're probably fine.

It was a bit of a challenge to wrap his fingers around the pen at ass o’clock in the morning with thick motorcycle gloves on, but somehow James managed to make a squiggle that resembled  _ James Grant  _ enough to satisfy the event organizers.  He set the pen down, gave the man across the table a smile, and stepped out of the way to let Greg take his turn.

“You sure this’ll pass tech?” he asked once they were on their way back to the cars.  Greg’s little Miata smiled at them as they approached, headlights up and makeshift track numbers lined out on the doors in blue painter’s tape.  The Harley looked strangely out of place, surrounded by so many four-wheeled vehicles.

Well, there was something with three wheels over that-a-way, and James honestly had no fucking clue what it was.  Morgan couldn’t possibly still be making cars, right? And even if they were, did they not get the memo that it wasn’t 1950 anymore?

Greg held out a hand for James’s helmet and gave it a quick once-over before handing it back.  “It’s got a Snell sticker on it, you’re probably fine. Mostly they just want you to have a brain bucket, they don’t care what it is.  They’ve never actually checked which spec it meets when I’ve been here.”

Stifling a yawn, James leaned on the seat of the bike as Greg proceeded to pop the trunk open and help the car shit out an impressively large pile of tools, spare parts, and fluids.  He rubbed at his eyes, then remembered the thermos he’d packed and dove eagerly into the topcase perched above the bike’s passenger seat.

“Coffee?” he prompted, offering the lid-mug-thing to Greg, but the kid shook his head and grinned.

“Top down before the sun rises, that’s better and cheaper than any caffeine.”

James shrugged and poured himself a cup.  “Suit yourself.” He took a few minutes to look around at the other participants; cars ranged from clapped-out Hondas to gleaming Porsches.  Something was rolling off a trailer, and James caught Greg’s eye before gesturing to it with his coffee.

“Oh, that’s a Caterham.  Don’t pay attention to him, he’s going to set the best times today and there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it.”  He pulled a face and snaked an arm into the bowels of his car, counting something off under his breath. Repeating it on the other side, he caught James’s baffled look and laughed.  “Stiffening up the suspension. There’s an adjuster knob on the top of the damper that lets me tweak it for the street or the track.”

James nodded and drained the last of his coffee, then poured himself another cup.  People were milling about on the course now, studying sheets of paper that must have been maps before setting painfully orange traffic cones in specific places.  His eyebrows furrowed as he noticed a break in the pattern.

“What’re the yellow cones for?”

“Corners.  Marks the apex.”  Greg shut the trunk lid with a solid click and slipped around the car.  “C’mon, let’s go walk the course. You gonna stay in your riding gear all day?  It’s the summer, man. You’re gonna roast.”

That was, in fact, what James had been planning to do.  Less chance of accidentally exposing his arm, since he’d left the silicone skin glove at home for fear of tearing it.

He conceded the point by unzipping his jacket, though, as he jogged to catch up with Greg.

Introductions were made, and soon James found himself laughing awkwardly at his gangly young fan club as they peppered him with questions about his motorcycle.

“No, I’m not going to race it today,” he answered one boy, and Christ, the kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old.  “I have no idea if they’d even let me, but all that aside, bikes don’t turn on a dime like cars do. I’m more likely to wipe out than pull through that hairpin back there.”

“He’s co-driving with me,” Greg interjected proudly.  “Getting an education in all things Miata.”

And get an education, he did.

It wasn’t often that James’s confidence got the best of him - he was highly skilled, after all.  The best in the world at what he did, in several areas. But sitting there at the start line of his first lap, with Greg grinning at him from the passenger seat, he was starting to question his life choices.

Namely, why the  _ fuck _ had he not brought a man-sized shoehorn.  This car was  _ tiny. _

His unyielding left elbow was pinned between his ribs and the door, and his knees were bumping the steering wheel.  The frame of the windshield was level with his eyes, and his helmet stuck up a good five inches above what he’d been told was the safe zone for a real racetrack.

The man with the green flag at the start line smiled at him, waited for a thumbs up, and waved the flag.

James slotted the transmission into gear, blipped the throttle up, and dumped the clutch to launch the car forward.

He hit the first turn and  _ ninety degrees with ten feet of track, what the fuck, you sadists _ promptly ran over three of the gleefully orange cones.

“First time,” Greg shouted at him.  “Just keep going!”

He probably spent more time sliding across the course than he did going in a straight line.

When they finally rolled across the finish line, Greg stared wide-eyed through the windshield for several seconds before turning to James.  “You drive like you committed a crime, bro.”

_ If you knew the half of it.  Bro. _

James pulled them back into their waiting spot in the paddocks much more sedately than he’d driven the course.  He undid the strap on his helmet, pulled it off, and set it over the shift knob before leaning over slightly to look at the course map taped to the glovebox.

“Given the fact that I’m pretty sure that was a damn terrible lap, I should probably go slower next time, righ?”

It took Greg a few seconds to shake himself out of whatever spell he’d been under before he tugged his own helmet off and nodded.  “Go slower to go faster. I know it doesn’t make sense, but you have to learn how to keep the car smooth and steady before you can whip it around like that.”

“This thing’s a tin can on skateboard wheels,” James said flatly, and poked one of the turns on the map.  “This one here - what did I do wrong?”

By the end of the day, he’d spun the car spectacularly eight times, gotten a cone firmly stuck in the mouth-shaped hole in the Miata’s front bumper, and was mercilessly teased about the six-pack of Ensure he’d drained over the course of the day, two of them with his lunch.

The younger kids - and James  _ really _ had to stop thinking of legal adults as ‘kids’ - managed to badger, beg, and plead with the event organizers to allow James to do a lap on the Harley.

“I- I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” he protested when the approached him about it, but was drowned out by excited, encouraging chatter.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself astride the Harley at the start line, visor down, fingers wiggling on the handlebars as he tried to convince himself that no, this wasn’t a terrible idea.

“I need new tires anyway,” he mumbled, and sighed explosively.  His visor fogged up for a moment, then cleared. The green flag dropped.  He kicked his heels up and yanked the throttle open.

He knew the course blind, at that point, having driven it enough times that they ran out of room on the dashboard for time slips.  It felt both bigger and smaller on the bike, though; he whipped through the slalom faster than any car could have managed, but the hairpin turns and tight corners certainly put up a challenge that made him grit his teeth and use every ounce of enhanced strength he had to keep the bike under control.

He managed to stay shiny side up until the last turn, though, the abrupt ninety-degree right-hander intended to slow drivers down as they exited the course.  The patch of gravel and dirt in the middle of the lane wouldn’t give a car any trouble, but the rear tire of the bike slipped out from under him and he finished his lap sliding sideways on his knee, wheels first.

He came to a stop, took a second for a deep breath, then pumped a fist in the air to show he was okay and slowly levered himself and the bike back upright.

The adrenaline rush was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

“And  _ that,”  _ he hollered over at Greg once he’d pulled his helmet off, “is why you need four wheels for this bullshit!”

Laughing, Greg led his group of friends over and slung an arm around James’s shoulders.  James did his best to stifle the flinch - he had two shirts and body armor and a thick leather jacket between them, come  _ on _ \- and grinned at the kids.

“We’re gonna head to the local burger joint for dinner once we’ve helped them pack things up here.  Tradition thing, you know. Come with us.”

Looking around at the young, smiling faces, James allowed himself a small smile in return.  “Sure.” He relaxed his hands so he wasn’t gripping his helmet too tightly. “Sounds like fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Autocross is basically taking a giant flat paved surface without parking berms or poles or anything you can run over, setting up a course defined by cones, and driving through it as fast and as cleanly as possible. There's a definite competitive side to it, but most casual participants use it as a way to improve their driving skills. Plenty of videos on YouTube if you're interested :) It's a lot of fun!
> 
> Also, note for those unfamiliar with autocross: "passing tech" means passing the safety check that happens at the beginning of each event. Helmets need to be up to a certain standard (Snell 2017 for most groups now) and cars need to be in good working order without any mechanical issues or leaking fluids. Rules differ based on the host organization.
> 
> The Morgan Trike that James notices:
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> The Caterham:
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> And, a reminder for James's bike, which is the same bike Steve rides in CA:TWS:
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End file.
